


The Turn of the Screw

by Fyre



Category: Quills (2000)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 15:11:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even a man who has survived the loss of all that he holds dear may yet find himself broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Turn of the Screw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blue Yeti (blueyeti)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueyeti/gifts).



> This story caught me by surprise, especially since I had given up hope of further ideas. I hope you enjoy it :)

Metal scraped upon stone. From the entrance hall, voices and the noise of boots echoed. Charenton had never been the quietest of places, but the shouting of men at work was not a sound that had previously disturbed the patients.

“You cannot be serious!”

Royer-Collard smiled his thin, snake-like smile, his head attentively to one side. “You do not wish to see your little madhouse’s continued existence, then?”

The Abbé stared at him, horrified. “Not by these means!” he protested. “You, of all people, were among those to declaim him and now, you intend to…” He shook his head incomprehendingly. “You are willing to _profit_ from his death?”

The smile widened, the eyes above it cold and without care. “He brought about his own end, Coulmier,” the Doctor said, his hands folded behind his back properly. “All he needed to do was give in to Christian behaviour. If he had stopped etching his perversity for all to see…”

“You would never have the opportunity to sell his very bones before his body is even cold!”

The good doctor looked at him then. Unlike his usual contemptuous glance, it was piercing and seemed to see more than it should. “Anyone might think you were fond of this man,” he said in little above a whisper. “Pervert, sexual deviant, fornicator and a doer of a thousand other sins I dare not even begin to imagine. Even the cause of the death of…”

“Don’t say her name!” It should have been a cry, but it came out a plea, desperate. It hurt to hear of her, even more than the lashes he laid upon his back, even now. They shed his anguish and guilt far better than any tears or prayers could.

The smile almost reached the pale, colourless eyes. “Consider this his compensation,” he suggested mildly. “Paying for the rebuilding of the haven that his pornography almost burned to the ground.”

The Abbé stared at him, anguished. “I have no say in this matter, do I?”

Royer-Collard laughed quietly. “Quite so, Abbé,” he said, patting Coulmier firmly on the shoulder. “I should be more concerned about the corruption of your own mind and soul by that captive of yours than those of his readers.”

The Abbé flinched back, shrinking from him.

Royer-Collard turned away, and walked down the staircase to greet the men who were unloading the formidable printing press. He called out orders that the Abbé did not hear.

Coulmier walked - if a leaden-footed stumble could be called that - towards his chamber and closed the door behind him, sliding the bolts into place. He leaned back against the ancient wood, bringing the heels of his hands to his eyes, pressing until it hurt.

He turned his head, pressing his brow to the rough stone of the frame, until he felt his skin break. Dragging his head, he let the pain soothe him, for a moment. His lash would be needed, again, as it was every night.

“Now, now, darling boy, you know there is no need for that.”

Coulmier’s hands dropped away, and he stared, startled, across the room.

There was little enough in his room, so it seemed impossible he could not have noticed the lazing form of the Marquis sprawled upon his narrow bed. He was illuminated by the afternoon sunlight, dressed in exquisitely-tailored clothing, his wig coiffed and powdered.

\- _blood and excrement matted on his bare palid skin spittal streaming from his mutilated silenced mouth, triumph and pain in his dying eyes_ -

“You’re dead,” Coulmier whispered.

The Marquis laughed. Unlike Royer-Collard, it was a warm sound, inviting any who heard it to join in with some wonderful and wicked joke.

“Call this my second coming,” he said, his eyes glinting with familiar devilishness. He held up an arm, the velvet cuffed topped by a ruffle of pure white lace. “Though I do think my glorious raiment is much more suitable than the second-class dishrags you made me wear here.”

\- _you started this little game_ -

“You’re _dead_!” Coulmier repeated, his voice quivering. “I saw you die! I held you! You died!”

\- _choking and purpling and jerking like a landed fish_ -

The Marquis stretched luxuriously and sat upright, delicately crossing one knee upon the other. “I only remain because you allow me to,” he said. His lips twitched. “I may be lacking certain assets of my predeceased predecessor in your affections, but I assure you I can compensate in other departments.”

Beyond the door, there was a resounding clatter and Coulmier spun, startled once more.

“Ah!” Suddenly, the Marquis was at his back, so close that Coulmier would swear he could feel the man’s breath on his ear. “Is that the sound of my great success being dropped upon the flagstones?” He chuckled, causing a shiver to run the length of Coulmier’s spine. “Surely, you didn’t imagine the child-raping hypocrite would pass by an opportunity to peddle that which he secretly wants?”

\- _barely a child with her wide dark eyes and pale face looking to him as if he might intervene between her and her husband_ -

“Not everyone is like you, Marquis,” Coulmier whispered hoarsely.

“I know, my dear,” the Marquis murmured. “I am quite healthy. I know my desires and I write of them, even if I do not practise all I preach. Who else can match me in being utterly myself in all and every way?”

“Corrupt…”

Coulmier was sure he felt the smile against his left cheek, his own eyes closed tightly. “Honest,” the Marquis murmured. “I never lied to myself nor to any man. Every man who read my work will know me. Who can you say the same of? Not that prig of a doctor. Not my trull of a wife. And especially…” A cool fingertip brushed Coulmier’s right cheek. “Especially, not you.”

Coulmier jerked, thrashing to free himself from the embrace of the man. The impossible embrace. Too quickly, the thought of his dreams - nightmares - of Madeline returned.

\- _warm and welcoming flesh and arms turning cold and dead her body cold and limp against him the only moisture his own seed in her dead womb_ -

“I want you gone!” he cried, his voice shaking. “Leave me! Can I not have some little peace?”

The Marquis spread his hands in a grand shrug and sat back down on the edge of the bed. “Isn’t that what we all want?” he said, leaning back against the wall, as if he were in the finest of boudoirs. He smiled once more. “That and a good, enthusiastic fuck. One can’t be lax, after all.”

“Be quiet, damn you!” Coulmier sobbed. “She haunts my nights, and now you come to torment my days! Am I not to be free?”

The Marquis leaned forward, suddenly intent. “You allow it,” he said softly. “You have too many things gathering up in your mind.”

“Too many things,” Coulmier agreed in a breaking whisper.

\- _bloody whorls through the water in the laundry vat hiding the pale still figure with the gaping maw in the once-smooth throat_ -

Hands touched his shoulders. He should not have felt them. Some part of his mind observed that it was so, but no other would touch him. M… she had. Even when it was not meant to be. The contact, the first in so many months, was as painful as the lack.

“You helped me find fame, my darling, beautiful boy,” the Marquis said softly. “Come. Let me show you how to find your peace.”

“You cannot know…”

He was guided to his low desk, made to sit, and a quill placed in his hands.

The Marquis’s hands were firm on his shoulders. “I know,” he said with authority. “When there are too many thoughts, you must let them out.”

The Abbé stared blankly at the quill between his fingers. “I do not know how to write,” he said stupidly.

The Marquis laughed again, soft, rich, wicked as Sodom. Then he kissed Coulmier’s ear tenderly, and for a moment, his tongue squirmed inside - penetrating - making the young Abbé gasp, though he did not pull away. Why pull away from something that could not possibly be there?

“Write,” the Marquis commanded. His hands had stroked upon Coulmier’s shoulders. “No matter if it is good or ill. Burn it afterwards if you must, but drive it from your mind onto the page, and you will be free.”

“I am…”

The Marquis’s hands squeezed. “You praised honesty, Abbé, not hiding behind deceit, vanity and pretence. Is that not what you wish to be? An honest, truthful man?” he whispered like sin. “Let me see your virtue.”

  
____________________________________________________________

  
_… maiden comes to make her confession. The Priest draws aside the curtain. He sees her in the candlelight. Her hair is dark and her skin was pale. She wears a plain dress with round breasts barely hidden. A cross rests on her bosom._

_Forgive me Father for I have sinned - she says._

_Speak child - says the Priest. She takes a breath. Her breasts rise around the cross. The body of Our Lord is lost between them. The Priest wants to share his Lord’s suffering more than ever._

_I cannot speak for shame - she says. She holds her crucifix fast._

_I must hear your confession if I am to absolve you - the Priest says._

_The girl bows her head. I cannot speak - she says. She sounds close to weeping._

_The Priest is moved to kindness. Perhaps you can show me - he says. She nods. He touches the barrier between them. Come to me - he says. I will see what sins you have committed._

_She comes between the curtains. She kneels at his feet._

_What sin have you committed - he asks._

_Many, Father - she whispers._

_She rises on her knees and leans close to him. Her mouth touches his. That - she says. And more._

_I must know all your sins if I am to absolve you - he says._

_She puts her mouth to his again. Her lips open. She pushes her tongue between his lips. She licks his mouth. He tastes honey on her. He knows she likes honey. Her hands come to his thighs. She kneels up further. Her mouth is hot on his. It is wet and warm and sweet._

_She puts her hands beneath his robes. Her hands are small and rough. She touches his manhood. It makes his mouth open more to hers. Her tongue is moving in and out of his mouth. She pushes it in and out. She moves her hands too. They close on his manhood._

_She takes one hand from his body to take his hand. She presses his hand to her bosom. She pulls her dress down to bare her bosom to him. He presses his fingers to it. She is warm and soft. She makes sounds like a lamb. He thinks it is pleasing for her._

_She takes her mouth from his mouth and lifts his robe. The Priest does not stop her. She puts her mouth on him. She is still wet and hot. Her tongue moves up and down. The Priest’s hand is in her hair. It is pulling and twisting and making her stay where she it._

_She lifts her head suddenly. The Priest is not happy._

_That is not how my sin ended - she says. She rises and lifts her skirt and shows her dark curls. The Priest pulls her close. His manhood is hard with seed. He pushes it against the curls. It slipped on wet flesh. She is warm and slippery. She moves and slips against him. He cries out._

_She sits upon him then. He pushes inside her wet and warm body and she is on top of him and her skin is warm and he puts his mouth to her breast and sucks on her flesh and she moves against him as if she is riding on a horse and he cries bites down on her breast and…_

_________________________________________________________

  
“Coulmier, what the devil are you doing?”

Gathering up a bundle of papers from the press, Coulmier stared at Royer-Collard. “I need it,” he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And ink. I have almost used up my last bottle.”

“What does an Abbé need so much paper for?” the Doctor demanded, grasping him by the arm.

The Abbé prised off Royer-Collard’s hand. Much to his surprise, the Marquis had been right. The haunting face of Madeline no longer crept into his dreams, as long as his dreams were kept to the page. Sheet after sheet was filled with his nightmares and horrors and it truly helped, as long as he did not stop.

“I have much to be doing,” he said, then turned and ran. The staircase was long, but he was at the top in moments, and back to his chamber. Piles of paper were stacked around the desk, but he ignored them to sit down, taking up his quill again.

He did not look around when the door opened. “Marquis, I told you not to disturb me, when I am at my labours.”

“The Marquis,” said Royer-Collard from the doorway, “is dead.”

A solitary black inkblot appeared on the fresh page. “Only as long as you wish him to be,” Coulmier whispered, thinking of the velvet-decked, lace-edged arms which had held him as he found his way back to peace.

He started to write then, scratching word after word onto the page.

Royer-Collard was still there, though hardly worthy of notice. Even when he picked up an earlier, much-smudged page, Coulmier ignored him. “You have gone quite mad,” the doctor said several moments later. He picked up another sheet. “You have lost your mind.”

“Ah!” Coumier turned, holding up a finger that was blistered from writing and black with ink. “That is not so. I have found my mind.”

“Writing filth,” Royer-Collard said flatly, staring down at him with contempt.

“Writing _truth_,” Coulmier countered. “The Marquis is right. You pretend virtue and dignity, but in truth, you are nothing more than a hypocrite.” He stood up, staring at the man who had brought ruin to his home. “Tell me, is it only silent infants raised by nuns that makes your shrivelled twig stand erect? Does the thought of a woman repel you so much?”

Spots of colour appeared, scarlet and vivid, high on Royer-Collard’s cheeks. “Mad,” he said, his voice hoarse. He tore the pages in his hands in half. “You have lost your mind, and I shall see to it that it is known and that you are committed!”

Coulmier smiled at him. “I only spoke the truth, Monsieur Doctor,” he said, as if humouring a child. “I have learned that the truth is very precious.”

The doctor stared at him, then cursed savagely and stormed out of the room, bellowing for his attendants.

Coumier sat back down and smoothed his page.

“Beautifully done, my darling,” the Marquis said, stepping to his side. He laid his hands on Coulmier’s thin shoulders, one slipping beneath Coulmier’s open collar. “Now, write.”


End file.
